Winter
The little boy was bundled in layers of itchy clothing, standing in the snow, watching as his father kicked at the door and swore. The boy’s feet were cold already, even though he had just stepped outside. The thick, leaden boots his mother had squeezed over his feet were a size too small and his toes felt numb. The door to their house was tricky, you had to work it just right if you wanted it to close properly. As with most things, the boy’s father had neither the patience nor the subtelty of touch to maneuver the lock. So he kicked the old door and breathed hard, his breath pouring up into the night sky, disappearing quickly.
The boy stomped his feet a few times, trying to get the circulation going in his toes. It wasn’t working. He looked at the snow covering the ground and watched as traffic floated up and down the street. The glowing headlights made the cars look like giant luminous insects. He thought about lightning bugs and dragonflies. He remembered one time at the lake in the park fishing with his father. It was as warm then as it was cold now. Everything always changed, then changed back. Hot, cold. Summer, Winter. Always in motion, always becoming then becoming something else again. It was confusing and hard to keep track of, but the boy did his best. He watched it all as it happened.
His father had calmed down and locked the door. Give me your hand, he said. The boy wiped his wet nose with the back of his mittened hand, then reached up and took his father’s outstretched bare hand. When you’re a grown-up, you don’t get cold, not ever, the boy thought to himself.
The pair crunched their way down to the sidewalk. The boy liked the sound of it, the noise they made together walking in the winter night. He skipped a couple of times and jumped once while they walked, to make different sounds and weirdly shaped prints in the snow. It had been coming down for close to an hour. Thick and furry. They were the first to walk through it, the only prints showing brightly beneath the streetlights. The boy smiled widely. He loved being the first to mark up the fresh blank surface of a new snowfall. It was like drawing on a clean sheet of paper, only better for there were no blue lines cutting through his pictures.
The boys father held his hand loosely, as though he weren’t sure how much pressure to apply. The child was a fragile and unfamiliar thing to the man. He worked nights and spent most days sleeping, so he rarely kept company with the boy. He felt large and awkward. He felt dangerous. He looked down at the happy boy hopping and skipping and tried to remember himself at that age. He couldn’t and he felt terribly, suddenly sad because of it. He had been a boy once, he knew. He was only twenty-six with a birthday just recently passed. He watched the boy and wondered how this all happened.
The boy watched the snow and the lights and his feet walking and his father’s feet walking and the houses slowly going by. It was cold but it was alright. His father kind of scared him sometimes, but tonight it was ok. His father was large and strong. Tall with a beard and green army jacket. A green cap on his head. The boy had a hat, a hood, and a scarf wrapped around his head. He couldn’t turn his neck too well, and his field of vision was limited, but what he could see was white and it shimmered. The neighborhood was a clean and lovely thing. It was quiet except for the breathing, the boy and his father together, inhale exhale.
At the corner they waited for the light to change. Red to green. Yellow in between. The boy thought that would be a good song. He wondered what would come next. What makes a song a song and not just words. The boy wasn’t sure, but his father would know. His father knew all about songs. There was a room in their house filled with records. The boy wasn’t allowed in the room unless his father was with him. And he was under no circumstances to touch his father’s records or, especially, his father’s stereo. These were grown-up things and one day the boy knew he would be a grown-up and have his own room of records and wonderful songs. Someday, the boy thought, I will be grown-up, too.
They walked across the street. It was black and wet and caught the colors from the traffic signal. It was really pretty, thought the boy. Almost as pretty as his prints trailing in the snow. But different, too.
There was a church on that side of the street and outside it was a man in gray clothes and a brown cap. The man sold newspapers and he had a big trash barrel with a fire going inside it. The boy and his father approached the man and the boy’s father greeted him. The gray man said, Some night, hah. And then he said, Paper, hah. The boy’s father counted change from his pocket and dropped coins into the gray man’s red hand. The boy stared at the barrel. He could hear the popping inside, and the glow from the fire caught his father in a weird way. Kind of scary, but the boy told himself, Don’t be scared. It’s just daddy and it’s ok.
He wanted to look inside the barrel, so he stood on his tip-toes, but this hurt because of the boots. He wasn’t tall enough, but he tried. When he was grown up and had records of his own he would also be tall, he promised himself. His father lifted him from behind and pulled him up into the crackling air. He held the boy tightly to his chest and the boy looked down into the barrel. Bits of newspaper were buzzing in there. Brightly flaming and bursting. Crack, crack. Some tiny flames leaped up, trying to climb into the sky.
The boy’s chest hurt being held that way. His breathing was shallow, reverent. He watched the bits of paper burning a ladder up into the falling snow, a bright, hot pathway eagerly rising past the boy and his father, past their puffy breaths, rising further even than the boy knew was possible.
by Kristofer Collins
 |
| photo by Anna Johnson |
The little boy was bundled in layers of itchy clothing, standing in the snow, watching as his father kicked at the door and swore. The boy’s feet were cold already, even though he had just stepped outside. The thick, leaden boots his mother had squeezed over his feet were a size too small and his toes felt numb. The door to their house was tricky, you had to work it just right if you wanted it to close properly. As with most things, the boy’s father had neither the patience nor the subtelty of touch to maneuver the lock. So he kicked the old door and breathed hard, his breath pouring up into the night sky, disappearing quickly.
The boy stomped his feet a few times, trying to get the circulation going in his toes. It wasn’t working. He looked at the snow covering the ground and watched as traffic floated up and down the street. The glowing headlights made the cars look like giant luminous insects. He thought about lightning bugs and dragonflies. He remembered one time at the lake in the park fishing with his father. It was as warm then as it was cold now. Everything always changed, then changed back. Hot, cold. Summer, Winter. Always in motion, always becoming then becoming something else again. It was confusing and hard to keep track of, but the boy did his best. He watched it all as it happened.
His father had calmed down and locked the door. Give me your hand, he said. The boy wiped his wet nose with the back of his mittened hand, then reached up and took his father’s outstretched bare hand. When you’re a grown-up, you don’t get cold, not ever, the boy thought to himself.
The pair crunched their way down to the sidewalk. The boy liked the sound of it, the noise they made together walking in the winter night. He skipped a couple of times and jumped once while they walked, to make different sounds and weirdly shaped prints in the snow. It had been coming down for close to an hour. Thick and furry. They were the first to walk through it, the only prints showing brightly beneath the streetlights. The boy smiled widely. He loved being the first to mark up the fresh blank surface of a new snowfall. It was like drawing on a clean sheet of paper, only better for there were no blue lines cutting through his pictures.
The boys father held his hand loosely, as though he weren’t sure how much pressure to apply. The child was a fragile and unfamiliar thing to the man. He worked nights and spent most days sleeping, so he rarely kept company with the boy. He felt large and awkward. He felt dangerous. He looked down at the happy boy hopping and skipping and tried to remember himself at that age. He couldn’t and he felt terribly, suddenly sad because of it. He had been a boy once, he knew. He was only twenty-six with a birthday just recently passed. He watched the boy and wondered how this all happened.
The boy watched the snow and the lights and his feet walking and his father’s feet walking and the houses slowly going by. It was cold but it was alright. His father kind of scared him sometimes, but tonight it was ok. His father was large and strong. Tall with a beard and green army jacket. A green cap on his head. The boy had a hat, a hood, and a scarf wrapped around his head. He couldn’t turn his neck too well, and his field of vision was limited, but what he could see was white and it shimmered. The neighborhood was a clean and lovely thing. It was quiet except for the breathing, the boy and his father together, inhale exhale.
At the corner they waited for the light to change. Red to green. Yellow in between. The boy thought that would be a good song. He wondered what would come next. What makes a song a song and not just words. The boy wasn’t sure, but his father would know. His father knew all about songs. There was a room in their house filled with records. The boy wasn’t allowed in the room unless his father was with him. And he was under no circumstances to touch his father’s records or, especially, his father’s stereo. These were grown-up things and one day the boy knew he would be a grown-up and have his own room of records and wonderful songs. Someday, the boy thought, I will be grown-up, too.
They walked across the street. It was black and wet and caught the colors from the traffic signal. It was really pretty, thought the boy. Almost as pretty as his prints trailing in the snow. But different, too.
There was a church on that side of the street and outside it was a man in gray clothes and a brown cap. The man sold newspapers and he had a big trash barrel with a fire going inside it. The boy and his father approached the man and the boy’s father greeted him. The gray man said, Some night, hah. And then he said, Paper, hah. The boy’s father counted change from his pocket and dropped coins into the gray man’s red hand. The boy stared at the barrel. He could hear the popping inside, and the glow from the fire caught his father in a weird way. Kind of scary, but the boy told himself, Don’t be scared. It’s just daddy and it’s ok.
He wanted to look inside the barrel, so he stood on his tip-toes, but this hurt because of the boots. He wasn’t tall enough, but he tried. When he was grown up and had records of his own he would also be tall, he promised himself. His father lifted him from behind and pulled him up into the crackling air. He held the boy tightly to his chest and the boy looked down into the barrel. Bits of newspaper were buzzing in there. Brightly flaming and bursting. Crack, crack. Some tiny flames leaped up, trying to climb into the sky.
The boy’s chest hurt being held that way. His breathing was shallow, reverent. He watched the bits of paper burning a ladder up into the falling snow, a bright, hot pathway eagerly rising past the boy and his father, past their puffy breaths, rising further even than the boy knew was possible.
Kristofer Collins is the editor of The Pittsburgh Book Review.
very nice!
ReplyDelete